one of us is a bit drunk and you shouldn't combine that with passions
by the ocean weekender
Summary: Spike and a semi-drunk Giles have a conversation on a backdrop of crap telly. Or: I think WAY too much about a tumblr headcanon about Spike being identified as a potential watcher in the 1800s and it evolved like hell.


If he had to suffer any longer, Giles was going to- well, he wasn't sure _exactly_ what, but it would be most unpleasant for the peroxide vampire reclining on his sofa.

With his boots on. For God's sakes.

Giles placed his book onto the coffee table with a 'thump' and deftly poured himself a drink from his slowly-diminishing hoard. 'Passions' really took a toll on one's drinks cabinet, he noted mournfully.

"Pour me one as well, will you, Rupert?" Spike said without looking up. Giles opened his mouth, then closed it again. Not even worth a response.

~0~

One hour later and the torture was finally over, though he could swear the voices were ringing in his ears. Goddamn Spike and his stupid boots and stupid hair and stupid… everything. _Especially_ calling him Rupert. Goddamn him.

"So, Watcher, anything in particular you want to watch? _Dawson's Creek_ is on soon; or there are repeats of _Dallas_ on- well, some channel. Have you noticed this bloody crap sack of a country's even crappier TV channels? There's no _logic_ to them! It's all 'NBC this' and 'MTV that'. Not like good ol' England. There you can just say the number and everyone knows what channel-"

" _Stop._ Just… _stop_ ," Giles demanded, almost ripping his glasses away and scrubbing at their lenses.

To both their surprise, Spike actually _did._ Silence leapt upon the living room like a beast and the librarian felt overwhelmed at the excess of it. One of those ridiculous infomercials was playing along tinnily and the clock ticked steadily and the sofa crr-ched slightly with Spike's elbows as he lit a cigarette and Giles pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed as he felt far too old to have such a life as he did.

~0~

They sat in silence for a while until Giles, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands turned to look at his (unwelcome) houseguest, said, "You could have been me, did you know?"

Thankfully, Spike had finished smoking- he didn't fancy setting himself on fire with the shock. However, he merely let out a bewildered, "Huh?"

"I've been reading some of the Council's old journals- for research." He rewarded himself another drink. "You're human name was William Pratt, yes?" without even waiting for confirmation, Giles continued regardless. "The Council identified you as a potential watcher around 1860. The following year they sent one of the watchers- I think an uncle of my grandfather, if I deciphered the handwriting correctly- to tell your mother, Anne Pratt."

Spike hadn't looked away since he's started talking, he noticed, and his eyes grew wide at the mention of his mother, "What happened?"

Giles allowed himself a smile, "She all but ordered him out of her house. Her exact words were, 'my boy shall _not_ under _any_ circumstances associate with such atrocious creatures.'" He looked away to drain his tumbler and when he turned back, Spike was lying on his side, boots now kicked off over the other end of the couch and hands bunched up into his coat sleeves. Giles blinked and suddenly Spike looked like a genuine person.

The moment soon passed.

"Ironic, isn't it?" the vampire flipped back around to stare at the ceiling, throwing an arm over his eyes and ignoring the telly that was still playing. "20 years later and then there I was, turning her into a vampire."

"I beg your pardon?" Giles _hoped_ his hearing was going. Because-but- _no_. For all of Spike's constant insisting of being 'evil', this was different, somehow.

"She had consumption; common as much in those days," he still didn't look over at Giles. "She was _dying._ Coughing up blood- the works. So…" he trailed off, somehow still managing to shrug lying down.

Giles blinked and then poured some more amber liquid into his glass, "So you sired her."

"Then she tried to shag me and… she wasn't my Mum, not after. So…" Spike trailed off again, shifting to look at Giles.

"You killed her." Suddenly, he wanted to climb into bed and sleep. Or go back to trying to read despite the ridiculous claptrap Spike liked to watch. Spike- or was it just William, now?- nodded and refused to look at him.

"Well," the blonde announced, far too loudly, snatching up the remote and turning up the volume on the television to its highest setting. "At least you're not going to remember all this in the morning, with the amount you've had to drink, hey, Rupert? Can't ne the Big Bad when everyone knows me deep and darkest secrets, can I?"

Giles opened his mouth, then closed it again and went back to his book.

~0~

The next morning, Giles could remember every part of their conversation. Totally and utterly verbatim. He couldn't decide what was worse: remembering, or actually sympathising (even _empathising_ ) with Spike.


End file.
